


The Mage Solution

by disparity



Series: Masters of Ourselves [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brooding, Cuddling & Snuggling, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Suspicious Mage Plots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-13 10:44:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7973923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disparity/pseuds/disparity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years ago, Anders deserted the Grey Wardens. Now he needs their help, and he knows it'll come at one hell of a price. Commander Surana takes what she wants, and Champion Hawke has plans of his own.</p><p>Fenris is just trying to keep Anders from being torn apart in the middle of it. Sometimes he thinks he's the only one that gives a damn about the man rather than the mage.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>on hiatus ):</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to The Mage Problem, which details how Fenris and Anders got together and sets up the plot for this fic. There is significantly _more_ plot this time around, as well as a bigger cast. This takes place about a year after Act II, although I have moved some events around in the timeline. Specifically, Fenris has not run into Hadriana yet, and some of the Act III quests are coming in early. Due to these and some major canon changes, I consider this series to be an Alternate Universe.
> 
> I've outlined thirteen chapters for this fic, which should come out to around 50,000 words. And I suppose I ought to warn you now that it's looking like this'll end up as a trilogy. Strap in, my friends.

Anders was terrible at Wicked Grace.

He wanted to blame the fact that Fenris was _distracting_ him with drunken smirks and the occasional brush of the leg, but the truth was that Anders had never been very good at the game. He didn't quite understand why he consistently failed in such a spectacular fashion. He was an apostate mage living in a city run by a mage-hating tyrant—the fact that he wasn't yet dead or imprisoned proved that he was at least a decent liar.

Apparently that skill didn't translate to bluffing his cards, because he was worse at this game than _Merrill._ Anders wasn't convinced she actually knew how to play. He couldn't tell when she was bluffing because _she_ didn't know when she was bluffing. It actually was sort of brilliant, and completely unfair.

Anders had never been a regular at Wicked Grace Night. He'd received an invitation when the group first started, under the condition that he didn't bring up any mage issues. That irritated Justice, and by extension Anders, who threw something of a fit and refused to attend. It'd been rather stupid, in hindsight. Perhaps if he'd started going sooner, he wouldn't be so abysmally bad at the game now.

Fenris had suggested he start attending to keep Justice away. The pub's atmosphere agitated the spirit, but that made it easier to recognize its influence. Anders was getting better at this, although he wasn't perfect. When their desires overlapped, it was almost impossible to tell them apart. The only time Anders could be sure that he was entirely himself was when he was doing things that Justice hated.

Fortunately, Justice really hated Fenris.

Anders still abstained from drinking. He wanted to indulge, but he was afraid that lowered inhibitions would make it easier to lose control. He couldn't afford to let loose _entirely_ , so he relaxed as much as he could and gambled away his meager coin and let Fenris grope him under the table when he had too much wine.

The two of them always _started_ the night at a respectable distance. Fenris, when sober, was not one for canoodling in public. Drunk Fenris had no such reservations.

“If you two don't knock it off,” said Hawke, eying Fenris' arm around Anders' waist, “I'll separate you myself.”

“Jealous, Hawke?” asked Fenris, raising an eyebrow.

Hawke scoffed, gesturing drunkenly at the two of them. “Which one of you am I supposed to be jealous of?”

“Well, that depends. Do you prefer top or bottom?” Anders quipped, and then snorted at the face Hawke made. Thankfully, he seemed to drop the subject. For now.

Anders couldn't help thinking how much easier it was to fend off Hawke's snarky comments with Isabela around. For one, she distracted him quite effectively with her flirting and impressive cleavage. And whenever Hawke did take note of the _horror_ of two men _cuddling on a bench,_ Isabela needled him playfully or brushed him off with a lewd comment. Anders felt her loss distinctly, and he was angry with Hawke for chasing her off.

Anders wasn't sure what exactly had happened between Hawke and Isabela. They'd had some sort of falling out, and then before Anders knew it, she was running off with the Tome of Koslun and leaving them all to the mercy of a horde of angry qunari. He just couldn't imagine her doing something like that without a damn good reason, and he was sure Hawke was the reason.

He suspected that Fenris knew more about the situation that he was letting on, but he hadn't pressed. It wouldn't bring Isabela back. He didn't expect she'd ever return to Kirkwall after that stunt, and it was a shame, because she was great fun and kinder than you'd expect. But Anders was used to losing friends. At least he wasn't alone, this time. He hoped Isabela wasn't either.

With the pirate gone, there seemed to be far less cheating at the table. It ought to have been a good thing, but Isabela used to cheat _for_ Anders out of pity, and now that she was gone, he did even worse. It wasn't as though he was actually losing much coin, in the end. Most of his income went towards the refugee fund, and curiously, he always seemed to find extra coin in the box the morning after a game.

He was going to find quite a bit in there tomorrow, he guessed, as he lost the last of his coin betting against Sebastian. He groaned and tossed his cards onto the table in defeat. When the priest started showing up to the weekly games, Anders assumed that the distasteful company would at least improve his odds of winning. He was quickly relieved of that notion.

Fenris' breath was suddenly hot on his ear. “If I am distracting you, Anders, perhaps I should move to the opposite side of the table.”

“Nonsense,” he bluffed. Fenris chuckled in response, and Anders reached over to peck his lips. “You're staying right here.”

“Oh?” Fenris smirked. “What makes you think you can command me?”

“What makes you think I need to?” Anders replied cheekily.

“It must not be so bad losing when you have someone to kiss after,” Merrill mused from across the table, head propped up on her hand as she watched them with a wistful expression.

There was a brief silence at the table, and it struck Anders that they were all waiting for Isabela to make a suggestive comment.

Varric recovered first. “Here, Daisy,” he said, holding out his hand. Merrill blinked drunkenly, smiled, and slipped her hand into his. He touched his lips to her knuckles briefly. “Just don't go losing on purpose now, you hear?”

Merrill giggled, her cheeks flushed with pink. “Oh, alright,” she agreed. “Thank you, Varric.”

“Always a pleasure to make a lady blush.”

Anders found himself even more distracted by Fenris when he _wasn't_ playing. It was clear that Fenris had drunk more than his usual amount, although his usual amount was steadily increasing. Anders felt a bit guilty about that, considering he was likely the cause. A year after setting their goal to separate Anders and Justice, they were no closer to a solution. They disagreed about how to move forward. It was nothing as bad as their arguments from years past, but there was more at stake now than pride.

Anders preferred not to think about it, which was really the core of the argument, but it was the best solution he had for now. He pushed the thoughts away as Fenris stroked his thigh, instead focusing on keeping a straight face—which he was clearly terrible at, given the evidence.

It wasn't long before Hawke sneered at them and said, “Don't tell me you're playing footsie under there. I'll be sick.”

“I think that's the pisswater you're drinking, actually,” Anders retorted.

“You know, Hawke,” said Sebastian, out of the blue, “I find it strange to hear such opposition of public displays of affection coming from a man with your proclivities.”

Anders gave Sebastian an incredulous look. Of all their companions, he hadn't expected the priest to come to his defense. Of course, Sebastian and Fenris were good friends; obviously he wasn't intervening for Anders' sake.

“I'd never do _that_ ,” Hawke spat, downing the rest of his drink.

“What? Play 'footsie'?” asked Sebastian innocently.

Hawke slammed his mug down and announced, “I'm going for another round before this conversation gets any more ridiculous. Who's coming with me?”

“I think you're on your own, Hawke,” said Varric.

If Hawke picked up on the double meaning, he didn't comment. “What does everyone want? Well, you're getting ale,” he declared, then stumbled out the door.

“You ought to kiss while he's gone,” suggested Merrill in a stage-whisper. “He can't feel bad about it if he's not here.”

“An excellent idea,” said Fenris, and promptly grabbed the front of Anders' robes to pull him in for a sloppy, heated kiss.

Merrill clapped, and Sebastian said, “Let it be known that this was not precisely what I intended to encourage.”

“Sure it wasn't, Choir Boy,” said Varric.

Sebastian sighed. “Your insistence that I am secretly a lecher grows tiring, Varric.”

“There's dirt on you somewhere. If you don't tell me where it is, I'm just going to have to search every inch of that shiny armor until I find it.

“I don't think you'll find any dirt on his armor,” said Merrill obliviously. “It's always very clean.”

“He polishes it with tears of boredom collected from the unfortunate souls afflicted with his company,” said Varric.

Merrill, pink-cheeked and mellow, replied, “Oh, I don't think tears would make very good armor polish. They'd leave streaks _ever_ -y-where.”

Anders was only distantly aware of this conversation as Fenris attacked his mouth with vigor. Wandering hands found his chest, waist, lower back. He surrendered to it, drunk and dizzy without a sip of ale, and pretended that nothing was wrong.

It was working out so far.

***

The sun burned persistently behind Fenris' eyelids as his consciousness returned. He let out a scratchy exhale and turned to his side to block it out, burying his face in soft, blond hair. The movement jostled his arm, which had been bent at an awkward angle to accommodate Anders during the night. Pain erupted along the stiff limb as he attempted to move it into a more agreeable position. In his sleep-heavy clumsiness, he managed to clip Anders in the ear with his elbow.

Anders whined in protest, his eyes opening reluctantly. Fenris mumbled an apology, wrapping his stiff arm around Anders' waist and pulling him closer. Anders wriggled as if to turn on his other side, but Fenris held him firmly, pressing his lips to the back of Anders' neck. This placated the mage, who hummed and relaxed in his arms.

“Morning,” said Anders with a sigh.

Fenris grunted. “We're not awake yet.”

“Oh?” Anders chuckled sleepily. “So this is a dream, then?”

Fenris offered a vague hum in response.

“That's odd. My dreams usually involve hordes of kittens vying for my love, although sometimes its darkspawn instead.”

“In my dreams, you have a terrible sense of humor.”

“Hmm. How bizarre.”

Anders flipped around before Fenris, in his tired and hungover state, could stop him. Warm lips covered his, and it was pleasant until cold feet brushed his calves. He lurched back with a noise of protest, and Anders swore and buried his feet back in the blankets before kissing Fenris again. This time, he eased into it, finding comfort in the slow movement of their lips. Fenris had the impractical urge to suggest they stay in bed like this, warm and languid, for the remainder of the day.

This was something Fenris never imagined he would have. Before now, he couldn't describe the need of it, the longing for something that lay outside his narrow view of existence. Still he found it difficult to define, as if it resisted words. It came to him in threads of sensation: warmth, whispers, lips on his forehead, breath on his neck, the scent of earth and musk. It was gentle and insistent, and the thought that he may lose it to his own ignorance or ineptitude was difficult to bear.

He knew it was precious, and he clung to it until Anders grew restless and squirmed in his arms, eager to begin the day early. Fenris had found that sex could convince him to stay, but he didn't use the knowledge on this occasion. As he drifted back to sleep, he felt the soft press of Anders' lips against his forehead, and he smiled.

His serenity was interrupted some time later by the sound of a lilting voice that said, “No morning sex? I'm disappointed in you, Fenris.”

Fenris sighed and buried his face further into the pillow.

“Ooh, that looks cozy. Mind if I join you?”

He heard the sound of her boots dropping to the floor, her daggers sliding from their sheaths. “ _Isabela_ ,” he said in a low tone, a warning she wouldn't heed.

“Oh, hush,” she said, sounding mildly offended. “I'll keep my clothes on. _Honestly_.”

Cold air rushed in as she lifted the sheets, and Fenris clenched at the chill before Isabela's warm weight settled next to him. She lay on her back, lifting Fenris' arm to splay it across her stomach. Hair assaulted his face as she shifted, and he made a noise of complaint before resting his cheek atop the thick waves. She scooted closer before she finally stopped shifting.

“Mmm, this is nice,” she said, and Fenris would have agreed, if only she were _quiet_. “So,” she went on brightly, “what do you want to do today?”

“Sleep,” he muttered, though he'd already given it up as a lost cause.

“Hmm. _How_ about I fetch something expensive from the cellar, and you and I have a nice lie-in?” She chattered on without a response. “You can braid my hair, and I'll paint your toenails. What color do you want? Pink? No, emerald! It'll match your eyes. Shame no one will be able to tell.” Suggestion colored her tone as she asked, “How _flexible_ are you?”

“Stop talking.”

“But Fenris, you _love_ my mouth.”

He scoffed. “I love no part of you, wench.”

A sharp pain struck his nose. He wrinkled it in protest. “That was mean,” Isabela chided.

“Don't do that,” he commanded.

“Well, don't be _mean_.”

Fenris sighed, opening his eyes at last. Isabela's mouth was twisted into an exaggerated pout, which he chose to ignore. “You may remain in this bed only under the condition that you are quiet,” he said sternly. “If you cannot meet this requirement, I will kick you out.”

“Fine,” she said, and Fenris was surprised by her acquiescence for exactly a second before she added, “But say you love me first.”

“I will not.”

“Say it, or I'll tell Anders you sing Tevinter lullabies when you're alone.”

He glared at her and said sharply, “Evidently not as alone as I imagined.”

“You have a beautiful voice, Fenris,” she said smoothly, absently brushing white hair away from his face. “I want to hear it say, 'I love you, Isabela. You have the most excellent pair of tits I have ever or shall yet behold, and I am honored to be in their presence.'”

“I fail to see the point of this.”

“Say it for me in that _delicious_ voice of yours just once,” she insisted.

“No.” He closed his eyes again, nuzzling her hair. “Be quiet.”

“I'll be quiet when you say it.”

“I will never say it,” he assured her, irritation bleeding through his tone.

Isabela quieted, her body stilling beneath his arm. Fenris reopened his eyes to see her expression blank, revealing nothing.

Since she had returned to Kirkwall following the qunari attack, Isabela was much changed. Fenris could tell that she was doing everything possible to conceal it, though he knew her too well to be fooled. She remained tight-lipped about the affair, but it was clear that her own betrayal weighed heavily on her mind. She took a certain care to things that she never had before, and Fenris was still learning which words he ought not to say.

He was not naïve enough to believe that Isabela never needed reassurance, but she certainly hadn't sought it from him. At least not until several months ago, when she'd broken into his home and demanded both his attention and his discretion. She did so regularly now, appearing and disappearing at her pleasure. To Fenris' knowledge, none of Hawke's other companions were aware that she had returned.

Fenris thought it must have meant something, that she'd chosen him. He was still lost on what, exactly, that was.

He sighed into her hair and said, “You already know it is true.”

“Mmm.” A small smile captured her lips, and it may have just been genuine. “Close enough,” she conceded.

Apparently placated, she began to breathe normally again, eyes fluttering with the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.

In the morning quiet, Fenris' thoughts turned to Anders, as they were wont to do. When he was not spending time with the mage, he was thinking about the mage. He would not have regarded it as an unpleasant exercise, were it not for the near-constant arguments they'd been having lately.

Fenris tried to be patient, but it weighed on him to have a problem go so long unresolved. No progress had been achieved. All he and Anders had done so far was come up with a hundred ideas for expunging the demon, only to dismiss nearly every one. There was a dearth of qualified persons available to ask for assistance or advice, and those who might've been willing or able to help could not be entrusted with such an important matter.

They had argued extensively about involving Hawke. Anders was firmly against the idea. Fenris was not particularly fond of it either, considering Hawke's previous behavior toward the demon and his casual disregard of his companions as a whole. The difference, of course, was that Fenris considered it worth the risk.

He could protect Anders from Hawke; this, Fenris was certain of. He did not think that Hawke would harm Anders, in any case. Though he was at times negligent, it was clear that Hawke at least valued his own self-opinion—he had stylized himself as a carer of mages, and maintaining this image seemed important to him. Anders was a mage. Therefore, Hawke could not harm him and still fulfill this self-imposed role.

Hawke could, potentially, be able to help. He may at least point them in the right direction, or assist them in gathering magical resources. Fenris thought it was worth the chance. But Anders did not trust Hawke, and no matter how Fenris pushed, he would not _budge_.

His stubbornness was infuriating, but Fenris respected his wishes. Still, his resentment was beginning to show through.

After a great deal of prodding that included both threats and bribes, most of which involved sexual acts (which were a surprisingly useful bargaining tool if his own will was strong enough), Anders had at last contacted his former commander. She was a mage, and apparently a good one, as she was credited with defeating the last Blight before it ever left Ferelden's borders, a heretofore unheard-of feat. Anders certainly seemed willing to sing her praises, although he was far less willing to ask for her help.

Anders did not speak much of his time as Grey Warden, and Fenris didn't ask. It was clear, however, that he hadn't left on good terms. The letter was difficult for him to write, and he'd asked for helped on numerous occasions. Fenris, ashamed of his illiteracy, had been defensive and useless, and he was aware that it was partly his fault that the letter had taken so long to send.

Things were a little more peaceful since it'd gone out, although the tension was steadily growing again as they waited on a reply. Fenris could not stand doing _nothing_ , and he knew he could not be patient forever. He dreaded taking his frustrations out on the mage. There was nothing in the world that was worse than causing Anders pain.

“You're brooding,” said Isabela, and for as often as she said it— _used_ to say it—in this one particular instance, it happened to be true.

“You said you'd be quiet,” he reminded her.

“I got bored,” she said dismissively. She turned her face towards his. “What's on your mind, love? Tell Auntie Isabela all about it.”

“We are not related.”

“We are in _my_ friend-fiction,” she insisted. “It's kinky.” When he failed to respond, she nudged him with her knee. “Come on. It's boy troubles, isn't it?”

Fenris sighed and admitted, “Sometimes I think that Anders does not _want_ to be separated from his demon.”

Isabela smiled sympathetically. “He's just scared.”

“He must face his fear,” said Fenris resolutely. “Running from it will do him no good.”

“He's been running a long time.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Maybe he doesn't know how to stop.”

Anders and Isabela were alike that way, he supposed. Knowing she would not, or could not, appreciate such direct sentiment, he instead pointed out, “ _You_ are brooding.”

“Oh, don't you worry. I've got nothing on your angst.” She chuckled before she leapt out of bed, and Fenris cursed as he pulled the blankets back around himself. “Well I'm going to find someone fun to do,” she went on airily as she donned her boots and weapons. With that done, she crossed back over to the window, leaning against it in a provocative pose. “Catch you later?”

“You could use the door,” he replied, and she laughed.

Had anyone accused Fenris of brooding for the rest of the morning, he would have denied it, though that was exactly what he did. He was aware that it was unhelpful—logically, he could recognize that it'd long ago ceased to be productive—but that didn't stop him. He was impatient and afraid, and he hated it, but there was nothing for it.

The only thing that helped was seeing Anders. The company could at times be as frustrating as it was soothing, but he continued to seek it out nonetheless.

With his morning free, Fenris did a bit of necessary shopping and met Anders at the clinic for lunch. He managed to coax the mage into a nap with a promise to rouse him in twenty minutes. An hour later, he kissed Anders awake and informed him it was time for their scheduled outing with Hawke, and unfortunately, there was no time to get another shred of work done before they departed.

Their mission was to track down a rogue assassin with an impressive kill count, rumored to be hiding amongst the Dalish. Hawke's connections to Merrill's clan made him an ideal candidate for the job, though in an uncharacteristic display of tact, he chose not to bring Merrill herself. Anders, Fenris, and Aveline followed him to Sundermount. Fenris questioned Hawke's judgment in going after an assassin without a companion who would be able to neutralize any nasty surprises left in his wake, but he did so silently.

The compliance cost him a snapped ankle and nearly immolated Aveline. He'd come to expect nothing less, with Hawke. Anders' talent for healing afforded them recklessness, though Fenris still favored strategizing. Fighting was as much about minimizing damage to oneself as it was causing damage to one's enemies, though the former concept was apparently lost on Hawke. Predictable, as he was never the one taking hits.

Anders was fussing over Fenris after the fight with the varterral, though it was entirely unnecessary. He said so, and Anders' hand tightened around his arm as he glared.

“Oh, is it unnecessary for me to take care of you, now?” asked Anders. “Sort of like it's _unnecessary_ for you to coerce me into taking naps as if I'm a child?”

“Sleep is a necessary physical function,” said Fenris stubbornly.

“So is walking, you fool, and if you ever want to do it again, you'll _sit the hell down_.”

“You are being hyperbolic.”

“I'm really not.”

“I am fine.”

Anders huffed. “Aveline!” he called, gesturing to Fenris with the hand that wasn't currently in a vice-grip on Fenris' upper arm. “Will you help me with this?”

“I will not be manhandled,” Fenris protested.

“You won't be,” agreed Aveline as she approached.

Fenris attempted to wrench his arm away from Anders, but he'd forgotten his injured ankle and landed on it with too much force. He hid the stumble well, but Anders must've caught some brief flash of pain in his expression because his expression transformed from irritation to concern.

“Don't put your weight on it,” he said softly as he wrapped his arm around Fenris' waist in support.

With a testy sigh that made his frustration known, Fenris allowed Aveline and Anders to lower him carefully to the cave floor. Aveline returned to Hawke's side then, just as the assassin appeared from the shadows. Fenris was halfway to his feet before Hawke called him off. He sunk back down painfully, hiding his wince this time.

Anders worked in silence as Hawke negotiated with the assassin. Fenris listened in, concluding after several minutes that Zevran distinctly evoked Isabela. Suggestion colored his tone, and Hawke snapped ill-humoredly at his implications. Unlike Isabela, Zevran apparently knew when to back off.

The glow of magic dissipated in the dim cave as Anders finished. Fenris turned to him, Anders' rough hand cupping his face. The mage looked serious, his mouth drawn into a tight frown. Fenris reached out to grip the front of his robes, pulling him in gently until he was close enough for a soft, quick kiss, an apology. Anders accepted it, helping him wordlessly to his feet.

Anders was quiet for the remainder of the excursion, and Fenris watched him with a somewhat wistful eye. It would be easier when the letter came. _If_ the letter came.

 


	2. I Will Stay

Anders knew he'd heard the name Zevran before. He knew that Surana had fought with a Crow assassin during the Blight. He didn't _connect_ the two until Zevran suddenly materialized to grope him and say in a sultry tone, “Courtesy of our mutual friend.”

He blinked once, which was apparently enough for Zevran to disappear in front of his eyes and reappear behind Hawke a few seconds later, as if he'd never left. Hawke turned around with a suspicious glare, and Zevran grinned in response, raising his bound hands. Hawke frowned and grabbed Zevran's elbow, forcing them to walk side-by-side.

Anders frowned at him for a moment. Their 'mutual friend' must be Surana, but he was fairly certain that Surana would not have slipped her hand between the folds of his robe and... His train of thought halted abruptly as he felt the corner of a note tucked into his pocket. He immediately removed his hand, returning it stiffly to his side.

The letter a hole into him for the rest of the day, until he finally got back to the clinic and shoved it into a drawer and pretended it wasn't there. Except. It _was_ there, and he knew it, and he couldn't sleep knowing that the stupid letter that was going to ruin everything was just sitting there in his desk.

He knew what it'd say. He didn't _need_ to look at it because he knew Surana, knew she'd never forgive him for deserting, knew how disappointed she'd be when she found out about Justice. He always disappointed her, because that was just his _thing_ , being useless and stupid and weak and making terrible decisions that hurt everyone he cared about.

He wasn't going to read it. He _wasn't_.

He flew out of bed, marched over to the desk, and broke the letter's seal with a burst of magic because he deserved this, he deserved to hear every scathing word in that letter. Except it was rather short for a letter, and there wasn't nearly enough small, neat script to detail all the ways he'd failed. His brow furrowed as he scanned the two short lines of text:

_Do me a favor? Stay alive until I get there.  
Your dumbass cat is fine._

Well. No, that couldn't be right. He read it again, and again. He read it a considerable number of times, because it was short enough. And that was just like Surana, too. Short. Snarky. But it couldn't be right because there was no way Surana would come _here._

Unless she was going to drag him back to Ferelden by his toes.

And he'd led her straight here. Oh, he'd warned Fenris of this. He _said_ , and had Fenris listened? No, because Fenris _never_ listened. Fenris hated Justice too damn much to see clearly. But no, this wasn't Fenris' fault. Fenris wouldn't have any cause to be angry if Anders hadn't been such a fool in the first place.

Anders fell asleep with his head bent over his desk, the letter clinging to his cheek with half-dried tears. He reawakened before dawn, folded the letter in perfect squares, and set out for Hightown with a heavy heart. No matter the consequences, Fenris deserved to know. Anders at least owed him that.

Anders let himself in, knowing Fenris was likely asleep. He wouldn't appreciate being woken up at this hour, but Anders knew that if he didn't do this as soon as possible, he could very well lose the nerve. He started up the stairs towards Fenris' room, halting in place as a scuffling noise drifted down from one of the unused rooms on the top floor.

Odd. Perhaps Fenris was awake after all. Or perhaps...

Anders drew his staff, taking the stairs as quietly as possible. He heard nothing else from the room, even as he paused outside the door to listen. He took a few steps back and wove a paralysis glyph into the floor just outside the doorway. It would do no damage to Fenris, if it _was_ Fenris, but it'd give him the element of surprise against an intruder.

He placed a shield over himself as well, then reached around the glyph to push the door open. He waited there several seconds, heart pounding, before he peered inside the room. He couldn't see anything, but a rogue may well be hiding in the shadows, waiting for him. He dispelled the glyph and entered the room slowly, shield humming protectively around him.

The bluish glow of his magic poured into the room with him, casting light into every corner. He looked around carefully, inspecting the broken furniture and moth-eaten carpets. Finding nothing out of place, he moved to the center of the room and cast a wave of telekinetic force in all directions. It raised a cloud of dust and nothing more.

Anders' eyes were drawn to the open window. He crossed the room, shutting it firmly. As it snapped closed, he heard a sigh from behind him. The sound of exasperation was definitively Fenris, but Anders didn't realize it until he'd reflexively cast a glyph of repulsion around himself and whirled around.

Fenris leaned against the doorframe, shirtless and irritable. “Is there some reason you've chosen to search my home for intruders at this ungodly hour?” he drawled.

The room was thrown into darkness as Anders dispelled his glyph and dropped the shield.

“You should really shut your windows,” he replied.

Fenris frowned, shaking his head slightly. “No point,” he muttered, lowering his axe. “You may stay only if you come to bed.”

He nodded towards the bedroom and headed there himself without waiting for a response. Anders forced his feet to follow, the letter impossibly heavy in his inner pocket. He stood in the bedroom doorway for a moment, hesitating.

Fenris sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees. Dim moonlight fell through the holes in the roof, illuminating the tattoos that curled around his body. He looked up at Anders through his white fringe, green eyes catching the light.

Anders let out a pained noise and crossed the room so quickly he hardly noticed it, climbing on top of Fenris and peppering him with kisses. Fingers kneaded his scalp as they traveled through his hair. He arched into the touch desperately. Affection intertwined with lust, lips and fingers and the warm press of skin, and Anders searched for it, blind and longing.

His body thudded against the mattress, under Fenris' control. Anders gave himself over to it, and that was what Fenris wanted, needed, and he still marveled at it. He couldn't give Fenris everything he deserved, but he could give all of himself. For a moment, he could even believe it was enough.

It felt like enough as Fenris stripped him bare, hands trailing his skin, finding all his scars. As Fenris kissed the burn on his hip, his fingers pushing inside Anders, slick and steady. As Fenris swept the cries from his mouth with his tongue, dragged his nails gently along Anders' inner thigh. As Fenris filled him, and Anders stretched to fit all he could take.

Hours were wasted with the slow rocking of hips, with sighs and drowsy kisses. Anders was afraid to fall asleep, but at some point he must have, with Fenris murmuring soothing words against his skin. He caught the tune of a song as he drifted, familiar but out of reach.

He woke up after dawn with Fenris' head tucked into his shoulder, his right arm completely useless. He winced at the sharp pain as he tried to flex his fingers. By the time he managed to ease feeling back into it, Fenris was awake and nosing at his neck, trailing light kisses along his collarbone.

“Fenris,” Anders whispered. Fenris hummed in response, and Anders felt the vibrations in his neck. He shivered and said, “I have to... There's something, I. Fenris.”

Fenris lifted his head up, pushing Anders' hair behind his ears as he asked, gently, “What is it?”

“It's in my...” Anders licked at his bottom lip, then sighed. “I'll show you.”

He shuffled out of bed to retrieve the letter, turning it over in his hands as he sat atop the sheets. It took a moment before Fenris went rigid.

“A response from the Wardens.” There was no question in it. Fenris sat up, alert. His eyes were fixed on the letter, but didn't reach for it. “When did it come?” he asked with a hint of accusation.

“Yesterday. From Zevran.” At Fenris' questioning look, Anders explained, “He used to travel with the Warden-Commander. I never met him, but she mentioned him a few times. Usually as a threat to particularly bothersome nobles.” He gave a short laugh. “Connections with the Antivan Crows. They took it for a bluff.”

Anders tapered off, still itching to fill the silence but knowing it wouldn't help his nerves.

Fenris frowned deeply. His voice was careful, measured, as he asked, “What does it say?” Anders offered the letter in response, but Fenris' eyes darted away from it. “Read it.”

“I already have.”

“Then what does it say?” Fenris repeated tersely.

“Read it,” Anders insisted, reaching out farther. He knew it by heart, but he couldn't bear to say the words. His throat already felt like closing up.

“You read it,” snapped Fenris. “Aloud.”

“What, you won't read the reply yourself after all that fuss you made about sending the letter?” Anders scoffed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Thanks for the help with that, by the way.”

Fenris pushed Anders' wrist back toward him. “Stop being petulant and read the letter,” he said, which was completely unfair, since _he_ was the one being petulant.

“If it matters so bloody much to you, you can read the letter yourself.” Anders tossed it into his lap.

“No, I can't,” said Fenris through gritted teeth.

“Sure you can,” said Anders derisively. “They're small words.”

“The size of the words is irrelevant, considering I am _illiterate_.”

Anders' brow furrowed. “Illiterate? But-”

Oh. Of _course_.

Anders was a fool. A complete and utter moron. He well knew that literacy was a luxury among the lower class, and Fenris had been a _slave_. It was easy to forget when Fenris showed such strong will of his own, and Anders had never known him any other way. Fenris was so eloquent, he hadn't even _thought_...

No, he hadn't thought. He'd opened his big mouth and insulted Fenris for a fact of his upbringing. And Maker, _that_ was a strange thought, Anders being higher-class than anyone as a runaway mage living in the shittiest part of the shithole that was Kirkwall. But for all he'd hated the Tower, they _had_ taught him to read and write, and that was more education than a lot of people had.

Anders opened and closed his mouth several times before choking out, “But _why_ didn't you-”

“Say anything?” finished Fenris, chuckling cruelly. “Admit that while I am attempting to assist you in matters that defy comprehension, I lack the simplest of skills? That I am not only unqualified but entirely _useless_ when it comes to the thing you need most?”

“You're not useless,” Anders breathed, reaching for him. Fenris flinched from his touch. “Fenris. You're not.” His heart was sinking, quickly. “I'd have given up ages ago if it weren't for you.”

“It's only been a year,” said Fenris, and _that_ was a kick to the gut.

Anders' jaw clenched, but he forced the words out because even if they were daft and desperate, they were true. “And it's meant everything to me,” he said keenly. “You've done more for me than you can possibly understand just by giving a fuck when nobody else did.”

“I haven't done enough.”

A second kick to the gut, and this one left him breathless. He saw the hurt through Fenris' anger, and it was so like his own. Inadequacy. Helplessness. He had no idea Fenris felt it, too. Fenris was always so strong, so certain. Anders hadn't thought—he _hadn't_ thought, at all, and he really ought to start before he mucked anything else up.

“ _You_ are enough,” Anders whispered, and he knew the words because they were the ones he'd never believe for himself. Fenris finally turned to face him, and Anders clenched his hands to keep them still. “You being here, with me? That's all I want. All I've ever wanted is someone who...” He stopped to swallow thickly before finishing, “someone who will _stay_.”

Anders could feel tears threatening and held them off. Maker, but he was doing a silly amount of crying. Proof of his weakness, as if he needed more. He was already begging for Fenris to stay with him, admitting that he would take anything. He'd take whatever Fenris was willing to give.

Fenris regarded him quietly for a moment, the line still firmly between his brows. He brushed Anders' cheek with his fingers and said, “I will stay.”

And dammit, that was it, Anders was crying now. He buried his face in Fenris' shoulder, and Fenris just held him until it was over, rubbing circles into his lower back. He felt _exhausted_ when he was done, slumped against Fenris, naked and afraid.

Fenris adjusted them until they were propped against the headboard, his arm around Anders' shoulder. He was still curled under the blankets, leeching Anders' warmth. He retrieve the letter and handed it back to Anders, who thumbed the edges anxiously.

“She's coming here,” he said finally.

All Fenris asked was, “When?”

“I don't know. Soon.”

He unfolded the letter then, though he didn't need to, and read its contents aloud. A small smile quirked Fenris' lips, and Anders' felt his chest lighten at the sight.

“This is from the same woman who said, 'Passion has no place in tactics'?” Fenris inquired dubiously.

“Oh. Yes, that was her.” Anders blinked, recalling his use of the phrase. “I'm surprised you remembered that.”

“It shocked me to hear something so sensible come from your fool mouth.”

Recognizing the playful lilt in his tone, Anders said smartly, “If my mouth is so foolish, then why do you keep kissing it?”

“I'll stop, then,” said Fenris, his tone turning suggestive. “After all, there are plenty of other places to kiss you.”

“Such as?”

***

The guard detail for the clinic was increased. Anders seemed quite certain that it was unnecessary, claiming it was not Surana's 'style' to abduct him in the night and spirit him away to Ferelden. Fenris refused to take the chance. The letter had not indicated Surana's intentions, and he would take any precautions to ensure Anders' safety.

He stood vigilant, awaiting further contact. He'd regained his focus in the last few days since receiving the letter. Despite the danger, Fenris found himself relieved to have a new problem to focus on, and he was confident in his ability to solve it. The Hero of Ferelden would serve an adequate challenge.

Anders was worried, his concern made apparent constant urges for Fenris' safety. It was tiresome, but he tolerated it. He reassured Anders as well as he was able, though truly the only thing to do was have patience. Anders would be anxious regardless, and the best way to abate it was to be calm and firm, a duty he'd been failing these last weeks. He recommitted to it, easing Anders' nerves with his fortitude, his sheer will.

Fenris kept his customary post outside the clinic, surveilling the crowds with a shrewd gaze. Such vigilance wasn't necessary under usual circumstances, since the better part of Darktown seemed to be either appreciative or indifferent of the clinic, but Fenris knew the perils of underestimating an unknown force. He watched closely for anything out of the ordinary, and after several long days spent in this fashion, he found it.

A lone dark-haired woman, short even for an elf, wove through the morning lurkers and derelicts. Her clothing was not ostentatious but certainly too fine for Darktown, her well-fitted leathers gleaming with a soft sheen over a long green tunic and leggings. The attire recalled the Dalish, but she lacked their facial markings. There were no visible weapons on her person, unwise for a person of means amongst the beggared and desperate.

Despite this, she appeared to be at ease amongst the district's inhabitants. Fenris watched as she cut a path neatly to the clinic, making no effort to hide her destination. He shifted his weight meaningfully as she approached, and she did not attempt to pass. She stopped in front of him as though she was expecting it and smiled in a way that was presumably intended to be reassuring.

She said nothing, perhaps awaiting threat or inquiry. When she received neither, her eyebrows raised.

“Hello there,” she said, pleasantly enough. “Is the healer in?”

Fenris' eyes narrowed as he attempted to place her origin. He still had some difficulty telling southerners apart. He could see now that her coloring was darker than Hawke's, although lighter than any full Tevinter or Rivaini. She lacked the distinct inflection of Orlais and was likely a Marcher or Fereldan.

“He is in when the lantern is lit,” Fenris replied, still considering her.

She gave the glowing lantern an obvious glance. “And you decide who gets to see him, huh?”

“I do.”

Her timbre was unusual for Kirkwall, her delivery casually indelicate. Every word was its own, full and harsh. It reminded him of Varric; he'd assumed the accent to be of dwarven origin.

The woman's smile widened. She shook her head and appeared to be holding back laughter. She straightened up again before saying, “I hear this clinic's free.”

“Anders does not charge for his services, and neither do his assistants,” Fenris recited. “We accept donations toward the Ferelden refugee fund.”

“Was that his idea?”

“Yes. He is a generous man,” said Fenris shortly, taking a dislike to the mocking edge in her tone.

“Everyone down here talks about him,” the woman replied lightly. “And you. All nice things, of course. I've even heard you're all cozy with the Champion of Kirkwall.” She raised an eyebrow. “That's impressive.”

Fenris did not comment. His silence only seemed to please her more.

“You certainly look capable.” She paused pointedly. “But then,” she chuckled, “looks can be deceiving.

“Indeed they can.”

The woman herself was not outrightly deceptive with her ambiguous choice of clothing or her conversation, polite on the surface. Still, she operated with an agenda, and Fenris refused to play into it. He was tensed for action, watching carefully.

“So how does this work?” she asked abruptly, and Fenris nearly flinched for his weapon as she made animated gestures with her hands. “You stand out here, growl at the shifty types when they get too close to your mage?”

Fenris turned a full glare on her. “Watch yourself,” he growled.

“You keep the templars away from him too?” she continued, heedless of the warning.

“I would not hesitate to end anyone who threatened him.”

“You take care of him?” she asked. There was a softness to her voice as her smile fell. He noted the concern in her eyes, whether real or manufactured, and her fists were clenched loosely at her sides.

“Yes,” said Fenris.

And she said, “Thank you. You've damn sure done a better job of it than I ever did.” She saluted him, and Fenris tensed. “Warden-Commander Surana of Ferelden,” she introduced herself. She nodded toward the clinic door. “That's my Warden in there, and I _will_ speak with him, but I have no desire to make an enemy out of a guy with a giant fucking axe.”

He observed her for a long moment. Without the facade of friendliness laid atop it, her expression was plain and earnest. If it was merely an affectation of sincerity, it was a good one.

“You haven't yet,” he replied. “We appreciate your prompt arrival.”

She snorted, the sound careless and jarring. “I'd have come a lot sooner if I knew the bastard was still alive,” she admitted.

Fenris' eyes narrowed again. “You will not take Anders anywhere he does not wish to go,” he informed her. He did nothing so crass as brandish his weapon, but his tone was firm, unmistakable.

She smiled tightly and said, “Force won't be necessary.”

“If I believe for a moment that you intend to harm him in any way, I will kill you where you stand.”

“I'm sure you'll try.” Her measured expression faltered. “But I didn't come here for a fight. I'm here to help, and it sounds like you need it.” Her posture eased with a sigh, and she waved in the clinic's direction. “Let's both stop posturing and get started, 'cause this shit's not gonna be easy.”

She waited for him to lead her inside. With one last searching look and finally a stiff nod, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm keeping the sex non-explicit for now. We'll see if I can manage to make it less mushy next time? And in case you can't tell, I have _issues_ with the inconsistencies of Dragon Age accents.


	3. Speak Plainly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to use elvish in this chapter but gave up the attempt after several hours. Instead I've just italicized the translated text. Since neither Fenris nor Anders speaks elvish, they do not understand what is being said.

Anders was, quite possibly, losing his mind.

“I need you to hold still,” he said for the, oh, perhaps _hundredth_ time.

The girl on the cot squirmed in response, and Anders tried not to glare. He really did. She was injured, and you just couldn't be upset with injured children. Even if their mother was chatting up your assistant and their little brother was clinging to your leg like a broodmother's tentacle.

Anders changed tack. “Have you seen that elf outside?” he asked the girl. “The scary one with the tattoos and the giant axe?”

“He's not scary.”

“Oh? Then I suppose you wouldn't mind if I brought him in here to hold you down so you'll stop fidgeting?”

The girl's eyes widened. Anders sighed. He was threatening children now. Brilliant.

“Look, Fenris wouldn't hurt you, alright? He's like a big, cuddly cat. But he's also very, very strong, and _that_ is what I need you to be. Alright? Can you be strong like Fenris?”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Can I have an axe?” she asked.

“You could touch the axe, if you want,” he offered, hoping that Fenris wouldn't be _too_ annoyed with him. The girl frowned, and Anders added, “He chops off heads with it. Don't you want to touch an axe that's chopped off somebody's head?”

“Yes!” She jostled in excitement, then let out a whimper and looked sadly at her arm.

“It'll be alright,” said Anders.

She sucked her top lip in, pulling at with her teeth. “Is it going to hurt?”

“No. It only hurts now because it's broken, see? So when I fix it, it won't hurt anymore.”

“Alright,” she agreed nervously.

Anders gave her a reassuring smile, and if it was a little wan, well, she probably couldn't tell the difference. “Good. Now what do you have to do?”

“Be strong.”

“And?”

“Be still.”

“Right. Now I'm going to do this on the count of three, alright?” The girl nodded, and Anders said, “One.”

The girl shouted, half in pain and half in indignation. Anders gave her an innocent smile. “You said three!” she screeched.

“I lied.”

“And you said it wouldn't hurt!”

“I lied about that, too.”

She pouted fiercely. “Were you lying about the axe?”

“No,” he decided. “You can touch the axe.”

Mollified, but still scowling, she allowed him to finish bandaging her up. It was fortunate that he'd already laid out the bandages on the side table, since the toddler sitting on his foot impeded his movement quite a bit. He really couldn't figure out why that was happening. The boy hadn't spoken a word, just latched on and refused to let go.

The children's mother was still flirting with Selwyn. Anders glared at them both, making a note to hit Selwyn over the head with something at the nearest available opportunity.

It was while he was turning back to his patient that he noticed Fenris in the doorway. He was already thinking over ways to convince Fenris to let a bloodthirsty twelve-year-old near his weapon when he glanced over the second person in the doorway. He did a double take.

Surana. In the flesh. Unarmed? That was new.

Anders felt oddly calm. Never mind the fact that he'd been high-strung for days, stressing about this very moment. Now that it was here, he felt it all rush out of him. His life was turning on its head, but Fenris was here. Fenris was handling it. And hey, if everything went pear-shaped and the world ended, there'd be no ill-behaved children.

All told, it wasn't one of his better coping methods, but Anders went with it, waving manically. “Surana, dear, so pleased you could make it. I see you've met Fenris. Will you come over here, love? I promised the little one she could touch your battleaxe.”

Surana snorted. “Hell of a place you've got, Anders,” she remarked, slipping in easily. “Smells just the latrines at the Keep. I'm getting homesick.”

“That'll be the nausea. You'll get used to it. Right, Fenris?”

Fenris looked mildly disturbed. He crossed the clinic with stiff, wary steps.

“Well, you're all set,” Anders said to the girl on the cot, patting her arm gently. She hardly noticed, staring fixedly at Fenris' axe. “Fenris?” he prompted. “Do you mind?”

“This is a deadly weapon,” he said firmly. “Not a toy.”

“Do you chop people's heads off with it?” asked the girl. Anders felt stirring against his leg and saw that her brother was looking up, too.

“Yes,” answered Fenris shortly.

The girl gaped at him. Anders reached an arm out, laying it on Fenris' shoulder. “She's an injured child, Fenris,” said Anders with a pitiful look. “Surely you won't be so cruel as to deny her this simple joy?”

Fenris grunted.

“Come on, Fenris!” chirped Surana. Fenris turned to glare at her. “Do it for the _children_.”

“I want to touch it, too!” said the boy, finally letting go of Anders leg.

Fenris relented, but he was not happy about it. Anders rubbed his upper arm and whispered, “Thank you,” into his ear.

“Are you alright?” he returned, his voice pitched low as the little girl pestered Surana next, asking if she was a warrior, too.

“Fine.” At Fenris' dubious look, he sighed. “I'm fine. Just... nervous. Has she said anything?”

“I don't believe she intends to harm or coerce you.”

“I told you, that's not her style,” said Anders, breaking away as Surana straightened up.

If she'd heard anything, she pretended not to. “You free?” she asked, giving the clinic a cursory glance.

“Selwyn can keep an eye on the clinic for awhile.” Selwyn looked up at the sound of his name. Anders gave him a pointed look, and he had the grace to look sheepish. “I've got a room in the back.”

“And I'm sure it's tastefully decorated,” Surana remarked dryly, “but I had a different venue in mind. We both have stories to tell, and they aren't the kind that want an audience.”

Fenris gave him a sharp look. Anders threaded their fingers together, squeezing his hand. Surana's eyes tracked the movement.

“We need to talk, Anders,” she said in the same firm, sensible tone that persuaded guards and nobles and entire armies. Not for the first time, Anders wondered if there wasn't some magic in it. Surana did seem to get her way disturbingly often.

“Just talk?” Anders prodded.

Surana chuckled. “Is it ever just talk with me?”

She wasn't even trying to convince him anymore. Anders found himself mildly offended. Of course, they both knew he was going to give in, and he was only dragging it out to save whatever small amount of dignity he could at this point, but she might at least do him the courtesy of pretending to buy it. For a minute or two. Anders' didn't have so much dignity that he could bear to part with it easily.

Surana turned and walked out of the clinic without waiting for an answer. And that was _exactly_ her style. Anders shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. Even a little hurt. Because as often as he'd seen her do this, she'd never done it to _him_.

Fenris made an unhappy noise in his throat, something akin to a growl, and Anders ran a hand soothingly along his inner arm, where his armor cut away to reveal his skin. “It's alright,” he said, focusing on the swirling lines of lyrium beneath his fingers. “Surana would never hurt one of her own.”

He knew that to be true, even if he _wasn't_ one of hers anymore. Fenris' skeptical look said that he saw right through Anders.

“We'll be fine,” he repeated firmly, and if his tone wavered a little, Fenris didn't comment on it.

They followed Surana through Darktown and into Lowtown, and Anders was too busy wringing his hands to notice that they were headed to the alienage. He looked up when Fenris' pointy elbow subtly jabbed his ribs, and his brow furrowed when they came up on the vhenadahl. He glanced at Fenris, who scanned their surroundings with shrewd eyes and an intense expression.

Surana hadn't looked back at all during the journey. She opened the door to a nondescript hovel and gestured them inside. Anders was still nursing a splinter of hurt from her coldness, but he shoved it down with the reminder that _he_ was the one who ran. That she'd come at all was already more than he deserved.

A small crowd waited inside the hovel, and Anders halted in the entryway. He'd been preparing himself for an awkward reunion with some of the other Wardens, since it seemed unlikely that Surana had come alone. Though it was certainly a bizarre experience to try and match his memory of Velanna with her markedly different physical appearance, it was far more bizarre to see Merrill sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her.

She didn't seem surprised to see them, as she smiled a little tightly and said, “Hello, Fenris. Anders. It's a bit funny to have so many friends in common between us, isn't it?”

Fenris grunted in response and pulled Anders, speechless, onto the bench next to him. It was pushed into the corner of the small room, facing two chairs. Velanna occupied one of them, and after the door shut behind her, Surana took the other. Merrill had the head of Surana's mabari in her lap, and both of them looked quite contented on the floor.

Anders looked from Fenris to Merrill and back again. This was not going to end well.

***

Surana wasted no time. This was wise of her, considering the fact that if Fenris did not receive an extremely compelling explanation of the current circumstances with haste, he was liable to rip her heart from her chest.

“So I gather the only ones who don't know each other here are Fenris and Velanna,” said Surana the very moment she sat down. “I'd give you two time to greet each other properly, but I think it's safe to say that's not going to happen no matter how long we sit here.”

Fenris regarded the Dalish woman coolly. She returned the gesture with ill-concealed distaste.

“This might get a little messy,” Surana went on, “so let's go from the beginning. I'll start.” She cleared her throat, shifting her weight a little on the chair. “After the Blight, I was tasked with rebuilding the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Anders and Velanna were among my first recruits. Several months after their...” She paused to consider the word for a moment, then went with, “initiation, I received some recommendations for potential recruits from the King of Ferelden himself.”

Velanna huffed from beside her. Surana turned to give her a pointed look, to which Velanna responded by rolling her eyes. “You have spent too much time among the shemlen rulers,” she said with reproach. “You mince your words.”

A tense moment passed before Surana let out a weary sigh and said, “Alright.” Her next words were harsh, her accent thickening as she let them fall carelessly from her mouth. “King Alistair hates me for a whole slew of reasons we're _not_ touching, so he thought he'd be all clever and send some spies into my ranks. I shouldn't have fucking agreed to it, but I did in the interest of _diplomacy_ ; and to no one's surprise, it came back to bite me in the ass.”

“They were acting under orders of the king?” Anders interrupted. “All of them?”

Seeing his obvious distress, Fenris began to remove his left gauntlet. Anders responded well to physical comfort, and he sent Fenris a startled, then grateful look as Fenris' hand covered his own.

Velanna answered Anders' question. “Nathaniel discovered their correspondence. They were sloppy.”

Before Fenris could ask who this Nathaniel was, Surana held up her palms and said, “Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” She lowered her hands and continued. “So I recruited these guys despite every fucking reason not to, and then I had to leave to handle some personal shit. While I was gone, they decided to make a move against Anders...” She gave Anders a sidelong look. “And that's your cue.”

Anders winced, and Fenris intertwined their fingers carefully. Seeing his hesitation, Fenris took the opportunity to clear up the details of Surana's tale.

“You suggested the conspirators were there due to personal enmity between you and the king,” he said, and Surana confirmed this with a nod. “What interest did they have in Anders?

“They thought he was a blood mage.” Surana scoffed. “Fuckin' Alistair thinks all my mages are spraying their bodily fluids around.” She glanced at Merrill and added, “No offense.”

“None taken,” Merrill chirped, and Fenris narrowed his eyes at how easily the two of them dismissed the subject. “The King of Ferelden doesn't _approve_ of blood magic, then?”

“He takes Chantry bullshit so far up the ass it starts coming out his mouth,” Surana replied.

“Oh.” Merrill blinked and said, “That's... very vivid.”

Surana smiled wryly. “Thank you. Moving on.” She turned her attention to her large mabari, who appeared to take no notice as he arched contentedly into Merrill's touch. “Alistair held my dog hostage and forced me to recruit a templar so he could expose us all as maleficarum and...” She shrugged. “After that, who the fuck knows?”

Merrill made a sympathetic noise, patting the mabari consolingly as she asked, “He really held poor, sweet Barkspawn _hostage_?”

The hound looked up at the sound of its name. Apparently finding nothing of interest, it laid its head back in Merrill's lap.

“A lot of mabari died during the Blight,” Surana explained, “so when I went to report to the First Warden, I left Barkspawn in the kennels in Denerim to breed. I was supposed to get him back as soon as I got to Vigil's Keep, but shit was going down with the darkspawn, and I couldn't make it to Denerim. I tried to get them to just send him to me, and I couldn't figure out why they wouldn't until I got that letter from Alistair about the new recruits.” Her expression turned hard. “He said he'd be _delighted_ to send Barkspawn to the keep just as soon as the Wardens' numbers were replenished,” she spat. She shook her head. “I should've known then.”

Velanna reached over to place her hand on Surana's shoulder. She spoke in what Fenris guessed to be elvish, the unfamiliar sounds rolling fluidly off her tongue. “ _You swore you no longer bled for this,_ ” she said, carefully holding Surana's gaze.

“ _It is an old wound._ ”

“ _I am sorry it must be cut again, my friend._ ”

Surana smiled ruefully. “ _Perhaps this time it will not scar so deeply_.” She switched back to Trade, which was fortunate, since Fenris did not appreciate their secret conversations and had been about to say so. “Why don't you fill in what you know?” she asked Velanna. “Starting with when I left.”

“Nathaniel was in charge of the keep and the arling in Surana's absence. He made a fine ruler, but the shemlen 'nobility' did not approve of him, not the least because his father was a fool.” Velanna shook her head, her mouth tight. “With Surana gone, there were multiple attempts on his life. It was chaotic. We began to suspect that the new recruits had something to do with it, so Nathaniel sent them away to investigate a minor darkspawn threat.” She nodded to Anders, her tone softening slightly as she added, “Anders and Justice went with them, to keep an eye on them.”

Anders' grip tightened. Fenris wanted to reach out, to hold him. He had surmised, long before Surana's arrival, that these events had caused Anders with a significant amount of trauma. Despite this, Anders was handling it fairly well. Fenris was loathe to discuss his own past without the assistance of wine, and he thought Anders showed strength in persevering through his distress.

He gave into the urge to move closer, nudging Anders' thigh with his own. His armor still separated them, but Anders pressed against it despite how uncomfortable it must be. When Fenris looked up again, Velanna was eying him with an indecipherable look. He challenged her silently, and her lips curled into something like a smile before she resumed.

“One of their number remained behind with an injury that we later discovered was self-inflicted, to give him an excuse to stay at the keep and continue correspondence with the king. Nathaniel caught him with a missive instructing him to obtain or fabricate evidence of my use of blood magic.” She scoffed with clear disdain. “We deduced that the other _traitors_ had similar instructions for Anders. We set out with a large contingent of the Silver Order to find them, only to discover them boiled in their armor, along with a squadron of templars.”

Fenris stroked the back of Anders' hand with his thumb. He evened his breath purposefully, making it slightly more audible.

“There was no trace of Anders or Justice,” Velanna finished. “Since then, we have heard nothing of either of them.”

“All this time...” Anders' voice was hoarse. He made a noise in his throat and inhaled carefully until his breath was steady. “I thought it was Rolan's plan alone.” He lifted his head, speaking directly to Fenris, his voice growing stronger. “He was one of the recruits, an ex-templar. He accused me of blood magic, and the templars descended on us so quickly...” Anders looked away then, as if in shame, and said quickly, “Justice and I had discussed joining together as the body of his previous host deteriorated-”

“His previous host?” Fenris' tone was accusing, the words falling from his mouth before he thought to stop them.

“Kristoff was already dead,” Anders went on, speaking to his feet. “Justice was pulled from the Fade into Kristoff's corpse unwillingly. He needed a new host, soon, and he'd asked me beforehand if I would ever consider it.” He shrugged helplessly. “We didn't know what would happen if we tried. Justice feared it would make him into a demon, and I was trying to research ways to do it safely.”

“That's what all those tomes were for,” said Surana. Fenris' eyes snapped to her face, finding no trace of surprise in her expression. She shook her head disapprovingly. “I knew you weren't just studying magical theory for the hell of it.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Anders defended, “but... I knew you'd just tell me not to do it. You wouldn't understand.”

“You're right. I don't fucking understand.” Surana sighed. “But it's done. We should focus on fixing it.”

Fenris had not taken his eyes from Surana, and he regarded her steadily as he said, “You knew.” Merrill's presence only confirmed it. “The witch told you.”

Merrill let out a noise of surprise, slapping both hands over her mouth. Her reaction seemed to be sincere, though her lack of wits was certainly no excuse. She moved her fingers apart to say, “Oh, I'm so sorry. She'd heard about the Eluvian, and she asked me about spirits, and... I never said it was _you_ , Anders!”

“How long have you been here?” Fenris demanded, staring Surana down.

“We got here right on Zevran's ass,” she replied, not bothering to deny it. “We've been staying in the alienage.” She shrugged. “I'm not in the habit of walking into shit blind.”

He'd been certain she was hiding something from the very beginning. Even the way she'd first introduced herself was deceptive. Fenris was not fooled by her candid moments, the unselfconscious ease with which she wove her tale. He knew magisters who'd perfected the use of sincerity as a weapon, disarming enemies with honesty and casual camaraderie so that they wouldn't suspect the machinations taking place behind the scenes.

It was in her open body language, her wry humor and gesticulating hands. The way she dismissed accusations not by denying them but by acting as though they were unworthy of note. She did not attempt to justify herself—pride would not allow it, he knew, having seen more of pride and its consequences than most.

“You tricked me!” Merrill wailed, her distress alerting the mabari in her lap. “You were so _nice_ , and oh, I fell for it, didn't I? You turned me against my friends!”

Surana crossed to Merrill and sank to her knees, speaking to her in gentle, soothing elvish. “ _Peace, child. I did not know they were your clan. I had no intention of using you for trickery or harm._ ”

“Speak so the rest of us may be party to the lies that come from your mouth,” snapped Fenris.

“I sought you out for your talent, Merrill,” said Surana in the Trade tongue. “By the time I figured out you all knew each other, I thought it'd be simpler to explain it to all of you at once. That's why you're here.” She reached forward to stroke Merrill's cheek. “I didn't mean to deceive you, lethallan. You're powerful, and sharp as hell; and I'd appreciate your help, if you're still willing to give it.”

Fenris knew that Merrill would accept the apology before she did. “Oh. I...” She placed her hand over Surana's and sighed. “I believe you. I'll help.”

“There is a reason we did not ask the witch for assistance,” said Fenris, caring nothing for the heartfelt exchange. “She is a blood mage.”

Surana let her hand fall from Merrill's cheek, scratching her mabari behind the ears before she stood. She walked back to her seat without haste and settled into it calmly. Fenris' fist was clenched, though he was careful to keep his other hand loose enough that it would not cause Anders any pain. Anders' lips ghosted briefly across his knuckles. He appreciated the gesture, but he kept his attention on Surana.

When Surana spoke, she did so evenly, each word enthused with an equal measure of disdain. “If it turns out blood magic is the only thing that can get rid of Justice, are you still gonna turn your nose up at it?”

“I will not deliver him from one evil only to sacrifice him to another,” he said unyieldingly. He heard Anders exhale beside him, and turned to meet his thin smile of relief.

Velanna scoffed. “You may be of the people,” she said, “but you have the ignorance of shemlen.”

“I am not one of your _people_ ,” Fenris snarled.

“I believe Fenris and I need to speak alone,” said Surana, the edge of command unmistakeable in her tone. Even the hound responded to it, rising instantly to its feet. Surana dismissed each of them in turn. “I'll come and visit you soon, Merrill. Anders, why don't you give Velanna a tour of your clinic? She's been dying to see it.” Velanna made a noise of disgust. Surana winked at her, then offered a small grin to her mabari. “You can stay.”

Barkspawn whined in response, headbutting Merrill's leg. Merrill stopped, looking down at the mabari with affection, then back up at Surana with hope.

“You want to go with Merrill?” Surana asked of the beast.

It barked, which was apparently a response in the affirmative. “Thank you, lethallan,” Merrill gushed. “I'll take very good care of him.”

Anders detached himself from Fenris with some reluctance, leaning down for a chaste kiss. “Be nice,” he pleaded.

Fenris raised an eyebrow, and Anders chuckled, the worry easing from his face for a moment. He brushed Fenris' hair back gently, running a thumb along his cheekbone before he followed Velanna from the room.

The door closed behind them. The corner of Surana's mouth lifted in a half-smile.

“Did Anders ever tell you his recruitment story?” she asked without preamble.

Fenris took a moment to assess the battlefield before he answered, “It seems he prefers not to speak of his time as a Grey Warden.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I will not speculate about his motivations with _you_.”

Surana spread her arms. “Speculate about mine,” she suggested with a mocking edge. “Why the hell would I recruit Anders? He escaped the Circle seven times.” She snorted. “It's not the kind of thing that's desirable in a soldier.”

Fenris considered it, then offered, “He is a mage. You are a mage.”

She seemed to be waiting for something else. Fenris did not give it. She heaved a put-on sigh. “Work with me, Fenris.” She gestured to the empty room and said, “It's just us in here. I'm being completely transparent.”

“Only a liar feels the need to assert his honesty at every turn.”

“What fucking reason do I have to lie to you?” she asked, doing her best to make him sound unreasonable. He would not give to it. “We're working together, here. For Anders' sake.”

Anger surged hotly through Fenris. She meant to use Anders' name to evoke the emotional reaction she desired. An obvious manipulation.

“I do not know your reasons,” said Fenris through his teeth, “and I don't need to.”

“Don't you want to?” asked Surana. “Isn't it better to know your enemy, if that's what you've made me?”

“I expect you to say whatever you think will convince me to trust you. That is precisely why I trust nothing you say.”

“You're really gonna pass up a chance to pick at _my_ brain?” She looked surprised, amusement pulling at her lips.

He inclined his head. “Are you so arrogant to find that unfathomable?”

She shrugged, shifting her weight as she asked, “Do you think I'm arrogant?”

“What does my opinion matter to you?” he countered.

“You want to know how I stopped the Blight?”

Fenris scoffed. “Still you refuse to speak plainly.”

“It's relevant,” she said lightly.

“This entire conversation is irrelevant.”

“Listen up,” she said anyway. “You'll like this one.” She seemed strangely gleeful, rubbing her hands together as she started, “I had a handful of ancient Grey Warden treaties from the factions of Ferelden: Orzammar, the Circle, the Dalish. They all agreed, centuries ago, to assist the Wardens when a new archdemon popped out of the ground and started-”

“I do not care for your superfluous detail,” he interrupted.

Indignation was written plainly across her features. “I had my treaties,” she said flatly. “But I still had to personally convince every one of those assholes to send me the armies they owed me.” A hint of her smile returned. “I got good at it. I can _persuade_ people. I can convince them to do anything I want them to.”

“You admit it,” said Fenris, unsurprised. “And yet you question my lack of trust in you?”

She shook her head. “I don't question it.”

“You are fixated on it.”

“That's how rare it is,” she explained. Her smile took on a wry tilt. “I can see that I'm not going to convince you to part with Anders. If I had a few months to spend planting seeds and pitting you against each other, it'd be a fucking cakewalk.” She shrugged carelessly. “ You've both got pretty screwed-up heads. But I don't have that kind of time. You're not leaving his side, so,” she sighed, “I'll just have to take you with me.”

Fenris stiffened in surprise. Surana's smile widened, and he regarded her with narrow-eyed suspicion.

“Trying to figure out my game, huh?” she asked, looking pleased at the prospect. “You don't have to believe me, but that's the truth. I recruited Anders because he's a Spirit Healer, and I fucking need one. He keeps my Wardens alive and whole. And he's one of mine,” she finished firmly.

“Anders belongs to no one,” said Fenris firmly.

Surana's tone was suddenly enthused with contempt, her expression twisting in an ugly way. “Justice has its grubby little hooks in him. He belongs to _it_ , now, and I don't like that any more than you do. That _thing_ has taken him over, and I'm going to _get him back_.” She clenched and unclenched her fists. “I don't care what it takes. I will not let anything control Anders.”

“Except for you.”

She shot him a furious glare, then quickly smoothed it over. “Once he has his own mind back,” she said, the slightest tremor still in her voice, “he'll be free to make whatever decision he chooses. I won't force anything on him.”

“You believe you can convince him to return to you and your Wardens?” Fenris spat with disgust. “He hates darkspawn. He _loathes_ the Deep Roads.”

“I gave him what he always wanted: a home, and a family.”

“And you failed to protect him!”

Surana flinched, and the way she tried to cover it up told him that the emotion was genuine. “I did,” she agreed, repeating it in a whisper. “I did. I failed him them.” Her eyes took on a determined look. “But I'll be damned if I fail him now.”

Fenris did not doubt her sincerity in this. He did not trust Surana's claims of straightforwardness, nor did he expect her to reveal whatever secreted motivations lay beneath her surface. But it was plain to see that she cared for Anders—or had, once. She felt some sense of duty towards him, and she would fulfill her obligations regardless of the cost to herself, or to Anders.

 _That_ was what concerned him.

 


	4. Off the Leash

Anders really didn't see why Hawke needed to know a damn thing. Hawke could go on obliviously slaughtering things with the mindless fascination of a smelly mabari war hound, and that would be just fine with Anders. It'd be fine with Hawke, too. After all, it wasn't as if Hawke actually _cared_.

But Fenris had argued that Hawke should be informed of Surana's presence and her involvement with Justice. He reasoned that being upfront with the information was better than allowing Hawke to find out some other way and come to all the wrong conclusions. Anders didn't give a damn about Hawke's conclusions, or what he decided to do about them, but he eventually caved. He swallowed his pride and even insisted on doing it himself, because apparently he was a glutton for torture.

He sighed as reached for the knocker on Hawke's front door, rapping it against the wood. He'd rather be anywhere else in the world, but well, this was his mistake, and he figured he ought to own up to it. Not that being mature was a riot, but he'd spent long enough skiving off responsibility.

He still didn't believe that he _owed_ Hawke an explanation. For anything. But he owed it to himself. He'd just have to be the better person, here. Which should be easy, since he _was_ the better person.

Bodahn answered the door, and Anders gave him a weak smile. “Messere Anders,” the dwarf greeted him cheerfully. “We haven't seen you around in long while.”

Anders opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut. All the responses he could think up were terribly snarky, and Bodahn deserved better than that.

“Well come in, come in,” said Bodahn, unfazed. “I'll just run and let Master Hawke know that you've come to call.”

“Thank you, Bodahn,” said Anders, allowing the dwarf to usher him inside.

He waited in the foyer as Bodahn trundled off. It'd changed since Anders had seen it last. He wondered if Hawke had a penchant for interior decorating and snorted at the thought. More likely he'd hired someone to make the estate look as stuffy and pretentious as possible to impress all of his _important_ guests.

And that really wasn't the best train of thought to hitch a ride on at the moment. Anders decided he ought to focus on Hawke's redeemable qualities instead. He tried to think of one. He was still trying when Hawke appeared in the foyer.

“Anders,” he said flatly. “I had to come and make sure Bodahn wasn't going blind.”

Bodahn's laugh came from the next room over. “He's such a kidder!” said the dwarf joyfully.

“Yeah, well.” Anders shrugged. “Here I am. In the flesh.”

“I can see that.” Hawke made a point of looking past him, scanning the otherwise empty foyer. “Where's Fenris?”

“At home,” said Anders, his brow furrowing.

“I'm surprised he let you off the leash.”

Anders took a moment to remind himself that he was here to make nice with Hawke, not shout in his smug, arrogant face.

“I'm here as a courtesy,” said Anders, as calmly as he was able. “I thought you might like to know what's going on.”

“What, you want to be friends now?” he snorted.

“Well, you're a piss-poor friend,” said Anders irritably, “but as it happens, I don't have all that many. And neither do you, so maybe you shouldn't be such a prick.”

“I see you've located your backbone,” Hawke drawled. “Haul it over here, then.” He turned and started through the hall.

Anders followed him to the parlor, certain now that the entire estate had been redecorated. It occurred to him that he hadn't gotten a proper look at it since Leandra's death. It'd been cozy then, the furniture tasteful but sparse, clustered together in intimate knots. Now the place was overflowing with ornamentation and forced elegance, rather more like a painting than a home.

Anders felt a sorrowful pang at the thought of Hawke's mother. He held onto it, hoping that what little sympathy he had for Hawke could get him through this. It shouldn't be too long, and then he could bugger off back to Fenris' place for his reward, which was hopefully the sort he'd be able to accept naked and bent over something.

The parlor had seen the tackiest of the redecoration efforts, and Anders had to keep his eyes down so he wouldn't be tempted to snort at the tiny hawks carved into the wall moulding. Hawke settled on one end of a plush sofa, and Anders took a place across from him.

He figured it was better to get this over with as soon as possible, so he got straight into it. “I've contacted some friends regarding my... spirit problem-”

“Justice isn't a problem,” Hawke interrupted testily.

Maker, but Anders could _feel_ Justice respond to that. The spirit still rumbled around in his head, making his presence known every now and then. Justice _had_ always liked Hawke, so it wasn't terribly surprising that he'd be active now. Anders couldn't remember it coming on so suddenly before, though. Perhaps visiting Hawke alone hadn't been the best idea.

“He sort of is,” said Anders mildly, “so I wrote a letter to my-”

“If Justice is such a _problem_ , then why wouldn't come to me about it?” asked Hawke. “Unless you think I'm not as good a mage as you.”

“Well, _I_ wasn't going to come to you.” Anders squinted at the growing pressure in his temples. “And Fenris didn't think you'd be able to help.”

Hawke looked almost hurt by this. As if Hawke had any _right_... Oh, Anders was starting to feel a bit woozy.

“And what does Justice think about you trying to get of rid of it like some pest?” asked Hawke.

Anders didn't answer, because Anders wasn't there anymore.

***

Hawke slumped in relief as Anders' eyes shimmered with their familiar blue glow. “Finally,” he complained. “Sure took you long enough, didn't it?”

“It is not easy to overpower Anders,” said Justice defensively.

“Are you kidding?” Hawke snorted. “You go on and on about how weak he is; but then when it's time to kick his head in, oh, suddenly he's a qunari juggernaut.”

“You've not the slightest idea of the effort required to convince Anders to venture anywhere near you without the elf.”

“And here I thought you were an all-powerful Fade spirit,” said Hawke in a mocking tone.

Honestly. Justice went on these long rants about razing the Chantry and destroying every templar in Thedas, and Hawke had seen it destroy more than a few, but it acted like taking over a mind as flimsy as Anders' was a chore. Was it a deadly warrior or a bitchy housemaid?

Justice narrowed its eyes and chose not to comment. “Your subtlety leaves something to be desired.”

“Oh, as if he'll catch on. He's so bloody deep in self-denial, I can almost feel sorry for the bastard.”

Which was a lie, actually. Anders was a self-righteous arsehole, so he probably deserved what he got.

“Feel no pity for Anders,” said Justice. Its expression grew angry. “He seeks to banish me. He has contacted Commander Surana.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow and asked, “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“Your arrogance does not amuse me, mortal.”

“Lucky I'm not here for your amusement, then,” Hawke snapped. Maker, he got saddled with the most patronizing spirit in the entire Fade. Probably best not to mention how fond he was of it, then. “What is it that couldn't wait until tomorrow? Anders' _filth_ is getting all over my sofa.”

Did Anders ever _bathe_? Not that Hawke understood why a man would ever have sex with another man while there were women about, but he _really_ didn't understand why anyone would want to fuck Anders when he smelled like that all the time. He didn't understand why Isabela had ever fucked Anders, or why she couldn't keep her damn mouth shut about it.

“Surana commanded the Wardens at Vigil's Keep.”

“Don't know what that is,” said Hawke irritably.

“It is the seat of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden.”

“Bully for them!”

Justice grunted in frustration and said, “Don't you see, fool? Anders has asked his former Warden-Commander for assistance in purging me from Anders' body.”

“Then just _say_ that, you tit.” He made an exasperation noise. “So what do I need to know about this arsehole?”

“Surana is a formidable foe. She has slain dragons and commanded armies. She makes allies out of her enemies, and when she cannot, she cuts them down without remorse.”

“Oh, should I be impressed?”

Justice gave him a reproachful look. “You should be prepared,” he said sternly. “She is a mage of considerable talent, and she wields more influence and power than even you.”

“So I take it you'd rather share _her_ head, then?” Hawke snapped.

“Of course not,” answered Justice. “She loathes me.”

“But if she didn't,” Hawke went on peevishly, “you'd rather use her as your vessel? Over me?”

“There is no evidence to suggest it is possible-”

“No, I see how it is.”

“Hawke-”

“You can fuck right off. Go on. I'd rather see Anders than you.”

Hawke sat stiffly on the sofa. _He_ certainly wasn't going to leave. It was his goddamn estate. If Justice wanted to talk about how much it loved Surana, it could do so somewhere else. Preferably in a sewer somewhere. Or it could just go and stick Anders' head in a dragon's maw. Two birds with one stone, and all that.

“Hawke,” said Justice placatingly. Hawke didn't budge. “If I could choose my vessel, I would not hesitate to choose you. You are strong and unyielding. You have the courage to do what must be done.”

“And I smell a lot better than Anders, by the way.”

Justice didn't respond to that. Prick. “We must watch Surana carefully. If she does find a way to separate Anders and I, perhaps I would be able to take another host.”

Hawke looked up hopefully. Maker, that was all he wanted. Ever since he'd found out a bumbling sod like Anders had managed to get a Fade spirit in his head and multiply his power without becoming a twisted abomination, he'd been set on the idea. But all _he_ ever found were demons. He wasn't stupid enough to fall for their tricks. He had to keep his good looks, after all.

When Justice first approached him to ask for help with the Mage Underground, which Anders had neglected ever since courting Fenris, Hawke had been thrilled. And then really pissed off that Anders hadn't ever told him about it. And then confused, because how could Justice do anything without Anders' knowledge? They shared a body, for Andraste's sake, and that meant eyes and ears and everything else.

Justice had explained that it'd found a way to block Anders' presence. Justice and Hawke would spend the night breaking mages out of the Gallows, and Anders would simply wake up unusually tired the next morning with no memory of the events. It allowed Hawke to finally _do_ something to really help the mages in Kirkwall, and Justice was pleased with his willingness to do the things that Anders balked at.

Hawke wasn't satisfied, though. He could do so much _more_ if Anders wasn't in the way. If Justice were in _his_ body instead. He'd have all the power he ever wanted, and he'd have the balls to use it instead of cower and whimper about it.

“Surana is being aided by the blood mage Merrill,” Justice went on. “She is weak and loose-lipped. You can use her for information on Surana's progress. We must ensure they do not get ahead of us.”

“Alright.” Hawke nodded, jittery with the sudden rush of possibility. “Still on for tomorrow?”

“Provided that Anders does not spend the night with Fenris.”

Hawke shuddered. “Ugh. Spare me the details.”

“Gladly.” Justice's expression grew serious. “Hawke. We cannot fail. Surana is a ruthless woman, and she has long hated me.”

“Oh, stop your worrying. And go away so I can kick Anders out of my house.”

Justice nodded once before Anders' eyes faded back to brown, the cracks in his skin closing.

***

Anders took in a breath, blinking against the pain in his temples. Maker, this wasn't good.

“I'm not letting you sleep here if you faint like a maiden on my couch, Anders,” said Hawke. “You'll soil the upholstery.”

“Damn your upholstery,” Anders muttered, quickly getting to his feet. “This was a stupid idea anyway. You can figure it out on your own.”

Because Hawke was incapable of allowing anyone else to have the last word, he called out, “I can and I will, arsehole!” as Anders left the parlor. Anders rolled his eyes.

He wasn't _panicking_ as he hurried through the estate to put as much distance between himself and Hawke as possible. After all, he could tell when Justice was putting up a fight, and the important part was that he knew how to stop it, now. Fortunately, it involved Fenris.

Anders felt much better once he was outside, and by the time he got to Fenris' estate, his headache had subsided entirely. He grinned a bit to himself as he walked up to the stoop. He really was getting better at this.

He rapped on the door three times before swinging it open. “Fenris!” he shouted through the mansion. Fenris appeared at the top of the staircase with one eyebrow raised. “Oh, hello,” he said brightly. “Did you know Hawke is a giant git?”

Fenris' eyebrow arched higher in response.

“I didn't start it,” said Anders defensively. He climbed the stairs as he spoke. “I tried to tell him, but he kept interrupting me. He was defending Justice's honor. _Bit_ hypocritical, don't you think?”

Fenris blinked slowly. Now that Anders was closer, he seemed sort of...

“Are you drunk?” asked Anders.

“No,” said Fenris, lifting his arms up in a full-body shrug.

Anders' eyes narrowed. He observed Fenris from across the landing and concluded, “You're drunk.” He sighed. “Fenris, it's not even noon yet.”

“So?” said Fenris irritably, heading back for the bedroom with less grace than usual.

Anders bit his lip. He didn't want to come off as accusing. He followed Fenris into bedroom, where Fenris flopped down on a chaise by the fire. A collection of bottles rested at the foot of it. Anders was relieved to see that only one of them was empty. And then he backed up a tad, realizing that if Fenris drinking _only_ a bottle of wine before lunch was a positive sign, maybe this was worse than he thought.

“Fenris,” Anders said gently. “I thought... I mean, things are getting better, aren't they?”

“Your commander is a _prick_ ,” Fenris replied, emphasizing the insult.

“Isn't it my job to call people pricks and your job to tell me when I'm being an idiot?”

Fenris chuckled but said nothing more. Anders joined him on the chaise, and Fenris' arms opened easily to accommodate him. Anders never would've guessed that Fenris enjoyed cuddling so much—but then, Fenris had surprised him in a lot of ways.

“Talk to me, Fenris,” he murmured, trailing his fingers over Fenris' shirt.

“I'm thinking. And drinking.” Fenris' eyes fluttered open, then he said decisively, “I'm think-drinking.”

“You've been doing a lot of thinking lately,” said Anders pointedly.

“There's been a lot to think about.”

Anders bit his lip again, and then the words he'd been holding back for awhile now came out. “It's my fault, isn't it?” he whispered, knowing Fenris would be upset. He never liked it when Anders blamed himself for things, even when they _were_ his fault.

“No,” sighed Fenris. “No, it's not your fault.”

“But I'm... you know, giving you things to think about. Lots of things. Stressing you out. Pushing you.” He flushed. “Babbling uselessly at you. Feel free to stop me anytime.”

Fenris reached for Anders' hand, twining their fingers together as he said, “It is not useless. I like it when you talk.”

“Really?” asked Anders, chuckling in disbelief.

“Mhmm. Gets me out of my head.”

“I thought you were drinking to get _in_ your head. You said it helps you think.”

Fenris grunted, shaking his head lightly. “It helps me not think. _That_ helps me think.”

“Okay? So...” Anders furrowed his brow. “Which one's better?”

“They're both important. It's a process.”

“Oh,” said Anders. He really didn't get it at all, but then, Fenris _was_ drunk. “So should I keep talking, then?”

“Yes. Talk.”

Anders shifted onto his side, tucking his head in the curve of Fenris' neck, and slowly breathed in.

“So Hawke's a git,” he started.

Fenris made a noise of complaint. “Talk about something you haven't talked about before.”

“You mean like a secret?”

“Mmm. Tell me a secret.”

“Okay. Let me think of a good one.” It took him a moment, but he did, and he smiled as he remembered it. “Did I ever tell you about the time I stole Velanna's knickers?”

“Velanna is the grumpy elf?”

Anders turned to look up at him. “You're the grumpy elf.”

“The less-grumpy elf,” Fenris amended.

“Yes, that's the one.” He nuzzled into Fenris' neck again, and Fenris made a contended noise. “Well, she used to really hate humans. As in, she wanted to kill them all. And she hated nobles, too. And Nate was a human noble, so she hated him the most.”

“This sounds like a love story.”

Anders laughed, caught off-guard. “You know, most love stories _don't_ start out with people hating each other,” he pointed out.

“Preposterous.”

“No, really, it's true.” He continued, “So Velanna hated Nate, but Nate was always really polite to Velanna. He even flirted with her a bit. And... well, I was sort of a prat back then, and I decided to mess with them. So I stole Velanna's knickers and hid them in Nate's things.”

“Of course you did,” said Fenris.

“Of course. And I figured Velanna would get upset or go looking for them, but she never said a word about it. So I stole another pair and did the same thing. Still nothing. And then another! Nothing.”

“Did Nate not discover them?”

“Oh, he did. See, he knew what I was doing from the beginning. He'd figured it out, and he was taking the knickers out of his room and putting them back in Velanna's the entire time. And I was going mad trying to figure out why no one was complaining about missing knickers.”

Fenris chuckled and said, “It sounds you got what you deserved.”

“Probably,” Anders agreed, his fingers drawing idle patterns on Fenris' chest. “It seemed very unfair at the time, though.”

“Mmm. That was a story, not a secret.”

“It's a secret because I've never told anyone.”

“I want a real secret,” Fenris insisted.

“You first.”

“Fine.” Fenris kissed the top of his head. “I'd like to learn to read.”

Anders' fingers stilled. He craned his neck to look up at Fenris again. “Really?”

“Yes. I don't imagine I'll be very good at it, but I would like to try.”

“I'll teach you, then,” Anders promised. “Maker knows you've got the mind for it. And reading would give you something to do when you're alone.” _Instead of drinking,_ he didn't add.

“I want a library like Hawke's,” Fenris went on. “There's a room on the first floor. There are shelves in it. They're broken, and there aren't any books on them yet. But I could fix them. Or buy new ones.”

“You've thought a lot about this, haven't you?” asked Anders, trying to wrangle the surprise in his tone.

Fenris made a noncommittal noise. “I think about everything,” he said. And after a moment, added, “It's your turn.”

“Oh. Right.” Anders hadn't actually thought Fenris _would_ tell him a secret, and now he had to think. He wanted to say something meaningful, but his mind was suddenly, unhelpfully, blank. “Er... This might take a minute.”

Fenris snorted.

“Well, I don't _keep_ secrets from you,” Anders defended, elbowing Fenris gently.

“Liar.”

“I'm not a liar.”

He was absolutely a liar. The truth was that did have a secret he'd been keeping from Fenris in the interest of not frightening him away. And maybe half because he wasn't entirely certain of it himself. Everything Anders knew about love was sort of fucked up.

“I have a pillow,” he blurted out instead, because it was the only other thing he could think of. He cleared his throat and said again, “I have this pillow my mother gave me, before I went to the Circle. She always called me her... well, in Ander it sort of means 'flower.' It's an endearment for someone who seems delicate but has strong roots. So she embroidered this pillow with part of an Ander poem on it, about hidden strength.” He paused, pursing his lips. “It's sort of silly, but-”

“No, it isn't,” said Fenris. He didn't say anything else, so Anders went on.

“It was the only thing the templars let me keep, when they took me. I escaped the Circle seven times, and I never once left it behind.”

Fenris' hand was gentle on his back, sweeping up and down in broad strokes. Anders closed his eyes, soaking in the touch, allowing it to comfort him.

“Have you seen your mother? Since you left?” asked Fenris.

“No,” Anders whispered. “Surana said... She always said I should, said I'd regret it if I didn't. She tracked her parents down, after she left the Tower. Sends them coin every month. I... I'd like to do that, at least. Help if I can. Maybe find my brothers and sister too.”

“We could, if you like.”

Anders felt warmth spread throughout his body. “You'd go to Ferelden?” he asked with a giddy sort of chuckle. “With me?”

“Someday, perhaps.” Fenris' tone was uncertain. “If you'll have me.”

“Oh, I'll have you,” Anders promised.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may or may not have noticed the updated relationship tags. *whistles innocently*


	5. The Dearest Secrets

Fenris' front door opened and shut with a bang, prompting him to sigh in exasperation. He supposed it was a good thing that Hawke's melodramatic entrances were loud enough to warn Isabela that it was time to exit through the nearest window. He wasn't certain whether or not she still lurked about the estate at the moment. Often he could only confirm her presence by the missing bottles in the cellar.

He leaned the broom up against the wall and exited the library, scowling at the dust he tracked over the floors. The stuff was persistent and irritating. It was the reason he'd cleaned nothing in this house excluding the bedroom and kitchen, as well as a small portion of the cellar, in his four years of residence. The library was proving to be a troublesome project, but the challenging nature of it only fed his determination.

Fenris was a ruthless warrior. He would not be bested by this infernal dust.

Hawke waited impatiently in the foyer, frowning as Fenris arrived. “What are you doing covered in dirt?” he asked, his lip curling in distaste.

“Housekeeping,” Fenris replied flatly. “Is there something you require?”

“Finally going to make this place livable, are you?” Hawke went on. He gave Fenris an approving look, which gave way to a scowl almost immediately. “Oh, piss. It's not because you're having Anders move in, is it? I figured he'd get over whatever inadvisable _thing_ he's got going with you.”

“I will retrieve my axe,” said Fenris, and turned to ascend the stairs.

Fenris didn't often consider what Hawke said, since Hawke so rarely said anything worth considering, but he found himself doing exactly that as he followed Hawke to the Wounded Coast. It'd never occurred to him to ask Anders to move in, yet the moment it entered his mind, he found the idea quite compelling.

Fenris lacked experience in courting. He found he could understand the physical aspects of it, the various types of touching and their uses, though he had a far poorer grip on the emotional aspects. He wasn't sure what to do beyond reassure Anders of his commitment to their relationship. Anders seemed to be satisfied with this, and Fenris took it as evidence that he was doing well enough.

Moving Anders into the estate would certainly increase convenience, but he wasn't certain what the implications of such an offer would be.

This courting business was needlessly complex. It contained rules and stipulations that were not clearly laid out. Fenris reasoned there must to be some sort of timeline for major events, but his research suggested that it varied widely among individuals. Isabela had never moved in with Hawke, but then, he didn't suppose Isabela and Hawke had a conventional relationship.

That brought up of the question of whether his relationship with Anders was conventional—and if it wasn't, did that excuse him from following conventions? Or did Anders expect him to adhere to certain milestones that he was unaware of? He doubted Anders would tell him so, were that the case. Anders refused to discuss any aspect of their relationship.

It was some time before Fenris managed to halt this train of thought, having grown far too frustrated with it. He turned his attention to the situation at hand, which also happened to be worthy of note.

He was currently en route to the Wounded Coast with Hawke, Sebastian, and Merrill. Their abilities were well-balanced, and Fenris was pleased to have Sebastian's company, but the fact that Hawke had brought the two like-minded men along on the same outing threw him for a loop. Hawke hadn't done such a thing since his rather heated response to their religious discussions. Fenris still visited Sebastian at the Chantry, but he hadn't fought beside the priest since the qunari attack.

Stranger still was the way Hawke chatted amiably with Merrill through the journey. Hawke seemed to like Merrill about as well as he liked anyone, but he'd never seemed to appreciate the way she blithered on. He often snapped at her when she talked too much, though she forgave him quite easily for it. Just now, they both appeared perfectly content with carrying on a lengthy conversation.

Fenris suspected Hawke's motivation for reaching out to Merrill was the same one that compelled him to attend to Wicked Grace night every week, despite his apparent distaste for the activity: Hawke was lonely. Isabela's departure from him had affected them both in strange ways. Fenris did not pretend to understand it, but he accepted that romantic matters could be emotionally complex.

Sebastian walked beside him as Hawke and Merrill went ahead, providing some privacy for their own conversation. One thing Fenris appreciated about Sebastian's company was that the priest was not inclined to fill every silence with inane chatter. The two of them were perfectly content to walk in peace, engaging in intelligent conversation only at the occasional urge.

As they came upon the coastline, Sebastian asked, “How is Anders?” A year ago, there would've been an edge in his tone, but it'd been replaced with casual politeness. Sebastian did not approve of Anders, but neither did he patronize Fenris for his decisions.

“The Wardens' search continues,” Fenris replied. “It seems we are no closer to a solution, although I have faith that their efforts are in earnest. They appear to be competent.”

Sebastian shook his head lightly as he chuckled. “I meant to inquire after Anders' well-being.”

“His well-being?” Fenris repeated dubiously.

“I don't see him often.”

“That is better for the both of you.”

“I'm not suggesting I'd like to see him _more_ often.” There was something suspicious in his tone. Fenris narrowed his eyes. “However, the two of you seem to spend a great deal of time together.”

“What is your question?”

“It is merely a polite inquiry, Fenris.” Sebastian glanced over at him, apparently struggling to hold back a smile as he said, “You seem reluctant to talk about him.”

Fenris snorted. “I refuse to believe that you are in earnest.”

“What possible underhanded motivations could I have in simply asking after his health?” asked Sebastian, affecting innocence.

“With you,” said Fenris, “there is no telling.”

Sebastian placed a hand to his heart, and this was the moment Fenris decided that he was being toyed with. “You would paint me as a scoundrel?”

“You would deny it?” he retorted.

“You're quite defensive about the subject,” Sebastian pointed out, that smug smile finally breaking across his face.

“I fail to see how my relationship with Anders is any of your concern.”

“Are we not friends, Fenris? Is it out of line to discuss a friend's... romantic companions?”

“Why do you have such interest in private matters that do not concern you?” asked Fenris flatly.

Sebastian sighed and said, “Everything is a battle with you.” He went so far as to pout. “Can I not express concern over your health and happiness without meeting accusation?”

“You hide behind an innocuous front while you plot in darkness,” Fenris accused. “I will not be fooled by your playacting. I have learned better than that.”

They passed a quiet moment in the shuffling of feet along the sand. Fenris, knowing better than to think Sebastian would simply drop the subject, awaited his response.

“I will admit to some curiosity as to the nature of your relationship,” he said at last.

Fenris' lips quirked in satisfaction. “It is not so chaste that the Chantry would approve, yet not so deviant to warrant a confession,” he offered.

“I believe your reluctance suggests a deeper affection than you are comfortable admitting,” said Sebastian primly.

“You believe a great many foolish things.”

Sebastian clucked his tongue and said, “It is always the dearest secrets that one keeps hidden from a priest.”

“You are rather smug for a priest.”

“Go on, my friend.” Sebastian preened. “The harder you resist, the more certain I am.”

Fenris scoffed. “This conversation is over.”

“Very well. I've made my point.”

When Fenris huffed again in response, Sebastian only chuckled.

***

It was a busy day in the clinic. Even if Fenris had been on the guard shift, Anders would've hardly had time to go outside and natter at him between patients. There'd been outbreaks of sweating sickness, or something like it, and the clinic was fully staffed. A year ago, they'd have lacked the supplies or personnel to curb the illness. Now, for the first time, Anders felt like they were actually _ahead_ of a plague rather than trailing behind it, haplessly trying to mitigate the effects.

It was hard work, but it was good work, and it distracted Anders quite thoroughly from his worries about Surana and Justice and Fenris and _Maker, breathe_. It was alright. And he wasn't just saying that, for once. The situation was _actually_ being handled by people much smarter than him, and they'd reach a solution in no time at all.

He'd offered to help Surana research and experiment, despite how very boring it all sounded, but she'd declined. In fact, he hadn't seen her in several days, since he'd explained Fenris' encounters with Justice in detail. She seemed perfectly content to stay holed up in the alienage with Velanna and Merrill and her dog. She didn't need him. She never had.

He was needed here, though, and that was enough. He had his clinic, and he had Fenris. Once Surana was finished fixing his mistake, she'd probably disappear again and get on with her life. There'd be no use living in the past.

Needless to say, Anders was surprised to hear Surana's laughter coming from outside his clinic. There was another feminine voice, rising in volume to be heard over the sound. It was vaguely familiar, although Anders couldn't quite place who it belonged to until he stole a moment to peer around the door.

Surana was listening to one of the clinic guards, Thea, tell a story that included animated hand gestures while Velanna stood a pace behind her, subtly scanning their surroundings with a faint smile on her face. She noticed him watching, her only recognition a slight raise of one eyebrow. Then her smile widened, and _that_ was enough to make Anders worry.

He saw her lips move, although he couldn't make out what she said. He only realized it was a command when Barkspawn, who'd been sniffing idly around her feet, gave a sudden bark and bounded for him.

Anders knew from experience that running would be useless. Instead he shouted, “Don't you dare! You call this mutt off right now-” And then he stopped, because Barkspawn was closing in, and he was _not_ going to let himself be trounced by a fully-grown mabari.

A glyph of repulsion spread beneath his feet, guarding him from the mabari's advance. Barkspawn skated to a stop just at the edge of it. He barked once, then whined. Anders glared at him. Then he glared at Velanna.

“That's very clever!” he shouted. “Now call him off before I put him to sleep.”

Velanna said nothing, still grinning. Surana snorted beside her. “Really? You're gonna use entropy magic on my dog? Come on, Anders.”

“Call. Him. Off,” Anders repeated. “I don't want his hair all over my robe or his tongue in my face. You know, cats don't jump on top of people and lick them to death. I'd just like to point that out.”

“Ser-Pounce-a-lot sheds twice as much hair as Barkspawn.” Surana turned to Thea and added, “Don't ask me how, though. He's only half the size.”

Thea giggled. Surana placed a hand on her shoulder, murmuring something Anders didn't catch before she and Velanna started for the clinic. Barkspawn was still pawing at the glyph, whining every so often. Anders gave him a stern look.

“Don't you start,” he scolded. “We haven't been friends since you chased Pounce up that tree in the Blackmarsh. You can't just sit there and be adorable and expect me to forgive you.”

Barkspawn howled.

Surana reached out to pat his head. “You're laying it on a _little_ thick there, boy,” she said fondly. She looked up at Anders, pouting. “Come on, Anders. You can't be upset with that face.”

Anders sighed. He shot Barkspawn one more warning look before dispelling the glyph. Barkspawn immediately rushed forward to headbutt Anders' leg. He kept his balance only because he'd braced for it. He reached down to pat Barkspawn twice on the head, and the dog nosed his hand happily.

“No licking,” said Anders firmly.

Surana was grinning. It warmed Anders a little. He never liked it when Surana was mad at him. “We came to see you because Velanna was bored-”

“Surana was bored,” Velanna corrected. She gave Surana a pointed look. “I imagine you made a terrible student.”

“I was Irving's favorite,” she chirped in response.

Anders could attest to that. He was several years old than Surana, and they'd hardly known each other at the Tower, but everyone knew _of_ her. Anders could just imagine how unbearably smug First Enchanter Irving must've been when he learned that his protégé was responsible for ending the Blight and restoring order to Ferelden.

“We don't have any leads yet,” Surana went on, “but it's a pretty safe bet we'll need a shit-ton of lyrium no matter which way this goes, so we're gonna get some. You still handy with a staff?”

“I'm a bit busy,” said Anders apologetically. “Plague and all that. Later tonight, though? Maybe?”

“We'll stay and help. Faster that way.”

Anders accepted their help gratefully, then spent the rest of his shift regretting it. Surana distracted more than she helped, keeping patients longer than necessary and turning Selwyn's head every time she laughed. Velanna worked quietly fixing poultices and potions, except when she was berating the other assistants for their clumsy human hands and subpar technique. Barkspawn got underfoot and tried to eat the healing supplies. He was probably least troublesome of the three.

All told, Anders was relieved when the day finally wound down and he was able to get them out of his clinic. Lirene shot him a narrow look as their group left, and he made a mental note to pick her a nice apology bouquet the next time he was out gathering herbs.

“Do you really do this every day?” asked Velanna as Surana led them through Darktown. “Here?”

“What, not your sort of place?” Anders replied innocently.

“No,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It is a festering sewer. How many Ferelden refugees fled the Blight only to end up here, destitute and ill?”

Anders' eyebrows lifted with surprise. “Too many,” he answered. “Although I imagine it's a better fate than the darkspawn.”

“But the Blight is over now. The land is still scarred, but it is healing. They could return.”

“They can't afford it.”

“I can see that,” Velanna said, a bit snappishly. She was quiet for a moment before she sighed. “I do not understand human civilizations. A clan cares for its own, but who is responsible for these people? Who is to blame when they starve?”

“I...” Anders paused, then answered honestly, “I don't know.”

Velanna gave him a considering look. “You take care of them,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Why?” she demanded. “When you left the Wardens, you were but a selfish coward. Did you change of your own will? Or did Justice force this on you, too?”

“Lay off, Velanna,” Surana warned without turning around.

Doubt crawled into Anders' chest, settling heavily against his heart. Was this all Justice's doing? Anders had always been selfish, and afraid. If the best parts of him belong to Justice, what would he be when Justice was gone?

Velanna followed the order. She looked troubled for the rest of the walk, even when Surana slowed down to walk beside them. Anders had the feeling that if Surana weren't in full plate armor, she'd have linked her arm through his like she used to when they sat atop the ramparts on chilly Ferelden mornings and pretended to see dragons and griffons in the distance.

It was an old Circle game. The Tower was tall enough to see miles in every direction, if you could find an arrow slit to peer through when the templars weren't watching. Apprentices would cluster around the little openings, looking through them one at a time. The first pointed out something spectacular far away, and each of them added details to the scene until it grew ever more ridiculous.

Anders became quite popular among the younger apprentices after he'd escaped and could tell them things he'd _actually_ seen. He wove reality with fantasy, challenging them to tell truth from lie, and gave stolen sweets to the children who guessed right five times in a row.

That was him. Not Justice.

“The Keep's been busy since you left,” said Surana, letting Barkspawn take the lead ahead of them. “Got some new Wardens.”

“Any as good as me?” asked Anders, managing a smirk.

“Nah. You spoiled me.” She elbowed him lightly. It still hurt a little, with her armor on. “Fancy-ass spirit healer.”

“It's a delicate art.”

“Andraste's foot it is.” She rolled her eyes and went on, “We've got some decent people, though. Ever heard of the Aeducans?”

“Can't say I have.”

“They're the current ruling family of Orzammar. King Bhelen's exiled sister is running my Keep,” she said with exaggerated nonchalance.

Anders made an appreciative noise. “I'd say I'm surprised, but honestly? That sounds like you.”

“She's also dating Sigrun.”

“What?” Anders stared at her in shock for a moment. “That's great!”

“Yeah. They're good together. Seems like it's gonna last.” Something tight worked its way into her smile. “Like Velanna and Nate.”

Velanna stiffened beside him. Anders frowned. He'd assumed Velanna and Surana were still together when they both showed up in Kirkwall.

“Oh? That's, er-”

“It's a good thing,” said Surana with a false note. “They're married now. They've been honeymooning at Soldier's Peak. Very romantic up there.”

Anders gave Surana a concerned look. She shook her head.

“Velanna's been studying with a friend of mine, Avernus,” she went on. “He's done a lot of research and experimentation with magic, and he agreed to share it with Velanna if she stopped calling him a dirty shemlen thief.”

“ _He is a thief,_ ” Velanna hissed in elvish. “ _He knows the secret of the immortality of the elvhen, and he hides it from me._ ”

Surana responded in Trade, which Anders was grateful for, because his knowledge of elvish was limited to swear words and badly-accented bedroom talk. “Well, maybe he'd be more willing to share if you weren't such a bitch to him,” said Surana pointedly, turning her attention back to Anders. “Nate runs things up there, although we haven't got much. I mostly use it to hide politically inconvenient Wardens. Don't tell Alistair.”

Anders chuckled, a little awkwardly. “If I ever have an audience with the King of Ferelden, I'll try not to mention it.”

They were out of Darktown by then, and Barkspawn had led them all the way to the docks. It suddenly occurred to Anders that Surana never mentioned where they were getting the lyrium.

“I know of a couple people that'll sell lyrium potions off the books,” said Anders, “but the nearest one's in Lowtown.”

“We need stronger stuff,” said Surana. She resumed her previous place in front of him, next to Barkspawn.

Anders frowned. “The stronger stuff's illegal. You won't find anyone selling it before sunset.”

“We're not buying it.”

“Then... who are we stealing it from?' Anders walked a little faster, trying to catch up with Surana. “Because there are some smugglers here that you really don't want to get involved with. And Meredith's cracking down on lyrium trade lately, so even buying it on the black market is a lot riskier, but _stealing_ it-”

“Don't worry about it, Anders,” said Surana mildly. “I have a plan.”

“ _Wait_.” Anders placed a hand on her pauldron, stopping her. There was something sharp in her eyes when she turned. He quickly removed his hand and said, “Kirkwall's a dangerous place right now, especially for mages. The Knight-Commander's got her hands in everything, and you have to be careful what you mess with. Maker, even _Hawke_ doesn't steal lyrium.”

A tight smile appeared on Surana's face. “Anders,” she said, an all-too-familiar edge in her voice. “You can desert my Wardens if you want, okay? You can run from me, you can turn your back on me—and you know, maybe I deserve that for failing to protect you the way I should have. But when I drop everything I'm doing and cross the Waking Sea and spend all this all time, effort, and coin trying to help you?

“You might not be my Warden anymore,” she went on, “and you don't have to be my friend either, if you want to deny me that, too. But you can at least show me some goddamn respect.”

“I didn't mean-” Anders started, then stopped. He swallowed the thick, cloying feeling in his throat. “With respect, Commander,” he said, a little hoarsely, “your knowledge of the area is... lacking. And I have to live here. I can't afford to be reckless.”

“Then you can go,” said Surana, gesturing behind him. “If you follow me, you follow my orders. If you can't do that?” She shrugged.

She wasn't _listening_. Maker, he wasn't trying to accuse her of anything. But he couldn't just break in somewhere and steal lyrium—templars may be involved, and he could lose control of Justice. Fenris wouldn't be there to calm him down.

“Maybe if we came back with Fenris,” Anders pleaded. “And maybe I can get in touch with some friends, too, to check where the templars-”

“That's enough, Anders-”

“I'm trying to _help_ ,” he insisted.

“And I'm trying to help _you_ ,” said Surana harshly. “Do you think I don't know the danger? You've fought by my side. Have I ever risked something when I didn't need to? Have you ever known me to be reckless?”

Well, perhaps he _had_ been fighting beside Hawke for too long. Surana wasn't Hawke. She'd never go into a situation unprepared if she could help it. She spent long hours in her office strategizing and planning guard patrols and going over the Keep's defenses. But at the same time, she'd been in Kirkwall for a matter of weeks. She didn't know the city like he did. She ought to at least hear him out, let him offer a bit of advice.

Unless... she didn't trust him anymore.

And that was it, wasn't it? He looked into her eyes, and he could see the hurt beneath her coldness. He'd done that. He hadn't trusted her, either. He'd been too afraid of how she'd react when she learned what he'd done with Justice, certain she wouldn't want him anymore. And what must she have thought? Maker, he hadn't even _written_. And then he did. And here she was.

“I'm sorry-” Anders started on a whisper.

“So am I,” she replied. Her mouth twisted with regret. “Go home, Anders. I'll take care of it.”

“But I-”

“ _Go_.”

He didn't go to the clinic. He went to Fenris' empty mansion, where he stared up at the holes in the roof and imagined he was home, wherever that may be.

 


End file.
